


We are the choices we make

by Crab_Lad



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Episode: s02e07 The Believer, Gen, Helmetless Din Djarin, Introspection, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28049097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crab_Lad/pseuds/Crab_Lad
Summary: Din ponders what it means to be mandalorian, and asks for Boba's side of thingsCHAPTER 15 SPOILERS
Relationships: Din Djarin & Boba Fett
Comments: 17
Kudos: 295





	We are the choices we make

**Author's Note:**

> anyway this is just something i cranked out im sorry if it aint super fantastic like other writing or not rlly diving deep into Mando's psyche i just wanted,, to write this lil thing,, 
> 
> might not be the last thing i write based on this ep but we shall see

“What does being  _ Mando’ade  _ mean to you?” Din asks quietly between the humming of the ship.

Cara and Shand are thankfully absent from the cockpit, leaving Din with Fett. The trailing blue of hyperspace casts shadows on the walls, lighting everything in a strange hue. It’s a familiar sight, something that’s always brought Din a sense of safety. Nothing can touch him here, not while systems pass in the blink of an eye. 

Fett doesn’t hesitate with his response, “It means everything, and nothing to me.” 

It’s strange to hear a  _ mando’ad _ say something like that. To admit that the culture means nothing. But- Fett said everything as well. A strange dichotomy, but Fett was a strange man. Similar yet so different from Bo-Katan Kryze, so different from Cobb Vanth who wore stolen armour. Din had only known of his covert, the Watch as Kryze had called it. There had been stories of false Mandalorians claiming to be the “true Mandalorians”, stories of Mandalore, falling to the hands of those who sought to wipe their culture from existence. 

How much of that was truth? How much of that was fiction?

“How so?” Din finds himself prompting, turning to look at Fett through his visor.

Fett’s helmetless, scarred face is a blank canvas of emotion. Din thinks he can see turmoil in those eyes, years older and experienced more than Din could ever imagine. It makes him wonder what Fett’s story is. How his armour got stolen, what those scars are from, why he’s so driven to help Din. 

There’s a breath, then, “My father was  _ Mand’alor _ . From the moment of my… creation,” Fett curls around the word with something… ironic in his tone, negative yet positive. Din doesn’t know what emotion there is in his expression, it’s not one Din has learned to read. 

It’s silent for a moment before Fett regains his composure, “My father was  _ Mand’alor.  _ As far back as I can remember, I’ve grown up listening to his stories of his clan. He told me once of how he was found by Jaster, brought into the fold of the Mandalorians. He told me the day he got his full kit, what the colors meant.” 

Jaster was a familiar sound, something Din vaguely remembers from his early days as a foundling. But he can’t place it, but it doesn’t seem important. Still,  _ Mand’alor _ when the false Duchess had sat on the throne. 

“My father taught me about our armour, about the culture that surrounded the armour. I grew up knowing nothing but white, steril walls, inhumane and inhuman beings with long necks, and my father, the only source of warmth on that miserable planet. Do you remember the Clone Wars, kid?” 

Din was young when the war between the Republic and the Separatists began. He knew of the army of many, all of one face. He knew of the droids who attacked, killing his family while the Mandalorians spared him. The city had fallen, many lost while the others had continued on. 

“I do,” Din answers.

“I was a product of them. Ten years before they began, I was created in a testing chamber and given to my father. A genetic copy as a son. To me, what my father gave me was special. The others, they weren’t his real sons back then. To me, they were nothing but thoughtless drones going to battle.  _ I  _ was his son, I was the one taught our culture,” Fett continues, still in that low steady tone of his. 

“If it weren’t for Jango Fett, I wouldn’t have any connection to the Mandalorian culture. It means everything to me, because it connects me to my father. It means nothing to me, because I never experienced it truly.” 

Din doesn’t know what to say. He isn’t sure what he expected from this conversation. Perhaps to find meaning in the face of… breaking his creed. To find some connection to Fett from Bo-Katan. To make  _ sense  _ of this terribly confusing world he found himself in. 

Silently, Din reaches up, feeling the edge of his helmet. The soft hiss of detachment fills him with fear, but he gently lifts the helmet and places it on the ground next to him. 

“Being  _ Mando’ade _ means everything to me,” Din says, trying desperately not to choke on his own breaths. “It’s all I’ve known since I was a foundling. My culture has been important to me… and I broke the creed. They saw my face. By creed… I can never put the helmet back on.” 

Fett studies him carefully, nothing betraying what his thoughts were. In an attempt to stay calm, Din swallowed down his nerves, clenching his gloved hands against his thighs. 

“Kid,” Fett finally speaks up, “in all my years in the galaxy, one thing I’ve learned is to take your own route. In the long run, your creed means nothing if you fail those you care about. You did what you had to do. If that helmet, your…  _ beskar’gam _ is important to you, keep it. You master your own fate, now.” 

The Mando’a that Fett speaks comes out clunky, roughly spoken as if the words are unfamiliar in his mouth. Din’s able to recognize the word well enough despite it, but still it saddens him to know that another  _ Mando’ad  _ never got to be a Mandalorian. 

As silently as he took it off, Din slips the helmet back on, breathing in the recycled air as the beskar sits comfortably over him. It’s comforting, to once again have that barrier, to have who he is finally portrayed with the helmet. Without it, he’s nothing but skin and bones, flesh and blood. The helmet is who he is, who he chooses to be.

“Thank you,” Fett says after, when they’ve both gone silent to look at the view around them, “for giving me the honor of seeing you.” 

Din doesn’t respond, can’t find it in him  _ to  _ respond. Instead, he nods and leans back in his chair.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is crablad


End file.
